


Delayed Defeat

by Goodspark



Series: Harry James Sirius Potter [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry Potter, Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Abusive Vernon Dursley, Albus Dumbledore Being an Idiot, Albus Dumbledore is not evil, Alternate Hogwarts House Sortings, Awesome Molly Weasley, BAMF Molly Weasley, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Broken Harry Potter, COMPLETELY INNOCENT AND KINDA REALLY ADORABLE, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Could we please make that a legit tag?, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Harry Potter is a Good Friend, Harry Potter is a Sweetheart, Harry does Not sleep, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomniac Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, Luna and Draco are related/homies 'cause I said so, Rubeus Hagrid is not dumb, Severus Snape is Draco Malfoy's Godparent, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Sweet but ornery Fred & George, Vernon Dursley Being an Asshole, he's an idiot, of the non romantic sort!!!!!!!, the twins are the best, there's a difference, who entrusted children with Albus Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28605885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodspark/pseuds/Goodspark
Summary: Abusive relatives; Magic, witches and wizards; Insane, egomaniacal, possessing murderers...As if Harry James Sirius Potter’s life hadn’t already done a complete 360 degrees, now he has to deal with hissing voices whispering in his ear, what seems like a vast majority of Hogwarts castle and Wizarding World against him, and a mass murder that’s escaped Azkaban prison and is now after him.(Basically a melded version of J.K. Rowling's Chamber of Secrets and Prisoner of Azkaban; Into, what I hope to be, a cohesive blend of each. It will be heavily influenced by both the books and movies, but also a depth to my own Broken!Harry Potter interpretation.)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Harry Potter & Padfoot, Harry Potter & Weasley Family, Luna Lovegood & Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Harry Potter, Rubeus Hagrid & Harry Potter
Series: Harry James Sirius Potter [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923379
Comments: 18
Kudos: 51





	1. Melancholy Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo there! If you are here from the previous story in this series, Naïve Bravo, then feel free to continue and I sincerely hope it lives up to your expectations! If you have managed to find this work and have not read Naïve Bravo, then you are about to be very much confused, fair warning. To all parties, I oh-so-hope you enjoy!
> 
> The absolutely gorgeously-fascinating world of Harry Potter, and therefore the characters within, do not in any way belong to such an absent writer as I am. Appropriate scenes and dialogue depicted are from J.K Rowling's works, the movies, and websites.

_**Chapter 1** _

_Melancholy Longing_

_''...The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sightings of Black should be reported immediately..''_

  
'''Reportings', my bloody arse.'' Vernon Dudley, of portly, robust build, snorts grotesquely.

  
''Language, Vernon, about our Duddlykins,'' Petunia Evans scolds her husband half-heartedly. She's a painfully-thin, nosey woman, with rather horse-esque features. Boney arms wrap, though not capable to completely, about the rather round boy currently entranced in the television not a foot from his squinty features. The thoroughly engrossed boy doesn't pay her, nor the conversation currently taking place, any mind.

  
Vernon scoffs in dark amusement. ''Ah, let the boy hear, Petunia! Do him some good, it will. Not like the nitwits you see these days. Why, if I had a say...'' The rest is carefully tuned out by the sole other occupant of the posh house: One Harry James Sirius Potter.

  
Unlike most children approximate to his age, the ebony-haired boy doesn't have the luxury to frolic, or laze around, like his cousin Dudley. No, his very existence is centered around one task in particular: To remain as a shadow throughout his daily life as much as physically possible. 

  
Of course, there were the moments he was unable to proceed in such a manner- which were, admittedly, the most frightful, often times.

  
Essentially, he was the maid of the abode. Which isn't to say he's complaining over the fact; _no, sir!_ It is just a matter of fact. He cooks,- as he's tending to currently- cleans, maintains the landscaping outside the tidy home...

  
Currently, he has several strips of exceedingly-greasy bacon _siiiiizzling_ in a vast skillet entrapment atop the stove. At its side, sausage simmers away noisily, robustly; The two meats' pungent odor wafting thickly throughout the home. _Tick-tick ticking_ within the toaster oven is an ensemble of steadily-browning toast. There're also eggs to be fried for his Uncle Vernon, and scrambled for Aunt Petunia and Dudley. As well, there are bananas, strawberries and grapes that are calling heed to needing sliced and plated.

  
''Hurry with breakfast, boy!'' Vernon, halting his rant over the decisions of those within the country and beyond, pauses long enough to roar. A thick vein on his temple begins to protrude threateningly. Stiff-spined, Harry abidingly ushers his concoctions along to the best of his abilities; Plating everything as swift as possible.

  
''About time, boy.'' The rotund man sneers once his burdened plate is settled before him. Harry is especially cautious not to so much as twitch at the address.

  
_''...Sirius Black is highly dangerous. Proceed with extreme caution...''_ The news forecaster continues to prattle from the living room, for what seems like the fiftieth repetition. Harry ignores it to the best of his abilities, focusing instead on cleansing every speck of counter, stovetop, utensil and floor to practically gleaming quality.

  
Ever since Harry could remember, his senses had been dialed up particularly high. He had always been observant as to his surroundings- had to be. The black-haired pre-teen could listen to numerous conversations at the same time, as well. His eye-sight had been poor since he was but a toddler, unfortunately, but his hearing seemed to be descent, maybe even a step above.

  
It was particularly useful during the months at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry- the school, and therefore education, he'd been fortunate enough to be accepted to attend before the Summer holiday. Harry was aware of the happenings about him, which assisted with his acute paranoia amongst large crowds, and people in general. At the Dursleys, however, it had to be forcibly dialed back, else he'd go into sensory overload at every waking, and un-waking, moment of his days. It wouldn't be the first, nor last, time such would happen.

  
There had been several instances over the years where he would awake in the cramped seclusion of his cupboard home; Panting, as though he'd just participated in a war-strewn battleground. Over-accelerated, to the point where he could barely stand his own skin- or seemingly his very molecules practically vibrating in anticipation.... It had been the cause of numerous ~~weaknesses~~ breakdowns over the years.

  
''-Masons will be arriving tomorrow. What is it we must do to greet them?'' Uncle Vernon's grating voice snaps Harry into awareness. Green eyes blink in rapid succession, attempting to concentrate back on the present.

  
''Invite them into our lovely home, perhaps offer them a bit of brandy for their pleasantry,'' Aunt Petunia replies loftily, gesturing airily to and fro with a dopey upturn to her painted lips.

  
''And you, Dudley?'' Vernon continues pleasantly, patiently repeating it thrice more before his son- enraptured by the telly droning along before his seated form- deigns to offer a distracted response.

  
''Invite the Masons in, and charm them with my manners.''

  
''Well done!'' Petunia nigh coos, proceeding to entrap her distracted son in a sloppy embrace. Her husband practically beams. Though, it's swift to disappear as he turns in Harry's direction, whom is currently painfully focusing on wiping the dishes dry to place within the cabinets.

  
''And you, boy? What will you be doing whilst the Masons are beneath our roof?'' The latter fragment of the sentence is punctuated sharply, warningly.

  
''I will be sitting in my cupboard. Seizing to exist, sir.'' Harry answers abidingly. There's a cautious lack of emotion within his voice and body language. Such would merely be viewed as a display of disrespect.

  
''As you should,'' his relative bites. The conversation is then steered towards the business meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Mason, due the following day. Vernon, the main source of income for his family, is employed for a drill company. If all goes well, tomorrow would prove a substantial success for his workplace. And, namely, his wallet- if he succeeds with his schmoozing.

  
Harry had so desired to be allowed away from the house whilst the couple is visiting Privet Drive, but he need not even dare ask; He's been dealt the harsh blow of denial enough in his young life to not be foolish enough to request such a notion. Besides, he hadn't anywhere to go in particular.

  
There was always the library, to fuel his hunger for knowledge- Merlin knows he's not hand-gifted with the gathering of such information personally. He could also merely comb the streets with no particular place in mind, even possibly visit a local park.

  
There were things he could do, visit, but it would be particularly... empty, most likely. _He'd_ been particularly lacking, more so than usual ~~if at all possible~~ , as of late.

  
Harry had been without his sole companion, his first-ever confidant, since the conclusion of his First Year at Hogwarts. One Rubeus Hagrid, the groundskeeper about the school, had kindly offered his canine companion, Padfoot, residence over the Summer- since before the beginning of the past school year, really. As such, Harry, though grateful the hound wound be properly sheltered and cared for, was a bit... lonely, dare he say.

  
\--...--

  
Harry swivels a meticulous mint-colored swirl onto the retina-burning violet, ivory and green pudding stationed before him, atop the polished counter. Backing off a bit once concluded, he takes the slightest moment to marvel at his creation.  
It's a bit hideous, due to Aunt Petunia's tacky taste in coloring preference, but, overall, it's a miraculous creation. It's a monstrosity of diabetes- a mound of pudding topped with dollops of whipped cream whirls, and pigmented by sugared violets. But, overall, it doesn't hold any bumps or lumps or otherwise visibly-discernable imperfections; Or, so he hopes. His relatives wouldn't be especially appreciative of any blemishes of any sort.

  
Finished, the black-haired boy shifts off to the side to check on the other sustenance preparations he'd been pouring over since before the peak of dawn. It had been one of the few occasions where he had arose before his relatives, where there hadn't been any shrieking from Aunt Petunia for him to '' _ **get up!**_ ''; nor his cousin bounding up and down the stairs overhead his cupboard-home, his 'room'.

  
Behind him, Aunt Petunia swoops over to critique any and all imperfections she could possibly imagine. All in all, though, she doesn't toss it out the window, nor pawn it off on a miscellaneous neighbor, fortunately.

  
''Not yet, popkin. That's for when the Masons arrive.'' The woman positively coos as Dudley appears, chubby digit extended in threat of sampling. The round boy huffs, perturbed at being denied- _Him!_ Harry opts to ignore the exchange entirely, out of lengthy practice.

  
''Which should be any moment,'' Vernon intrudes, much resembling a walrus completely with wrinkly mustache as he waddles into the limited kitchen space. ''Now, let's run through our schedule one more time. Petunia, when the Masons get here, you will be...''

  
''In the lounge, waiting to welcome them graciously into our home.'' The horse-like trophy wife responds, loftily gesturing in aforementioned direction.

  
''Good.'' Her spouse nigh-beams. ''And Dudley?'' 

  
''I'll be waiting to open the door.'' He gesticulates showily, arm extended as if to gather an article of clothing out of politeness.

  
''Excellent! And you?'' The beady-eyed man then turns to regard Harry, whom ever-cautiously had turned so that his back isn't left vulnerably-exposed. The mustachioed fellow is upholding a particularly distasteful expression that could rival Professor Snape's- Harry's Potions teacher, and Head of his House, Slytherin, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's tainted as well with a rather ill-intent warning, should the shaggy raven-maned pre-teen meddle in his Uncle's important business meeting.

  
''I'll be in my cupboard, making no noise and pretending I don't exist, sir,'' Harry responds dully.

  
''Too right you will.'' His relative regards him suspiciously, as if searching for any and all potential nefarious plots. The adolescent relentlessly combats a full-bodied shiver at the scrutinization. Instead, he makes certain to maintain eye contact with a vase just behind the man's shoulder; Neutral territory, not particularly challenging- as direct eye contact would be seen as.

  
''With any luck,'' Vernon continues, ''this could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career.''

  
_DIIIING_

  
At the bidding chime of the doorbell-announcement at the front of the house, a dagger-like, meaty hand clamps onto Harry's bony shoulder, barging him harshly out of the kitchen and into the foyer. He's then shoved bruisingly ~~literally~~ into his room- the cupboard beneath the staircase. The slats emitting what limited light slips through into the confined space are slammed closed, enclosing the noirette in pitch darkness.

  
A heated gust of air escapes the spectacled boy. Wincing lightly, he settles down atop his cot.

  
It's among one of the few belongings he owns beneath the tyrannous Dursley Abode: His cot, a scattering of hand-me down shirts, trousers, and lacking pairs of socks and underwear. There's also his deceased Father's Invisibility Cloak that had eccentrically appeared atop his 'bed' a few years previous. It's safely, to his desperate hope, nestled between an indiscernible nook in the overhead, dusty rafters. (His relatives are, luckily, too cumbersome and posh to be able to crawl into the, his, space.) There's also a few items from school he'd snuck with him- including rations of sustenance to sustain him throughout the Summer.

  
Overall, though, Harry wasn't a particularly materialistic person- he didn't believe so, in any case. And how could he be? The Dursleys hadn't, and would never, allow it. Dudley, his cousin, was gifted with anything he could possibly ever desire, whilst the Potter was allowed hand-me-downs and a rare spot of water or bread crumbs.

  
The most materials he'd ever owned, personally, was due to his being excepted- miraculously- into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Which, admittedly, meant that most of the items were school-related or of the sort, but the fact still remained.

  
There's one of which that, despite being dreadfully dangerous to have beneath the Dursley roof, he couldn't help but browse every so often. Well, often enough, admittedly, that- in the lack of light of his cupboard- Harry didn't even have to be looking at the images to be able to see them; They'd been ingrained into his cranium.

  
It was a hand-crafted book from Rubeus Hagrid- the groundskeeper for Hogwarts, and the single-most kindest person Harry has ever had the ~~undeserved~~ pleasure of knowing. The half-giant man had taken the time to title each page with the name and characteristics of different creatures and animals amongst the Wizarding World, then he'd- in the allotted space that remained- added drawings of each in via texts from the school's Library. It was fascinating- to the point Harry had already thoroughly memorized each description.

  
The only downside was the in-flux of melancholy that would consume him whenever he pondered over the thoughtful book. He... he missed, _longed_ , for the days at Hogwarts; With it's labyrinthine corridors, brilliant Professors, informational tuition... The rush of adrenaline that came with loop-dee-looping about the Quidditch- a popular sport amongst the Wizarding World- pitch on his beloved, anonymously-gifted Nimbus 2000 broomstick. The at-least weekly visits with Hagrid, his boarhound Fang, and Harry's own companion, Padfoot. The man, pre-teen, and dogs wouldn't always do anything in particular, but the company was appreciated nonetheless. And it was particularly wonderful to be able to feel the breeze nipping at his robes- which he couldn't even ponder over wearing at the Dursleys.

  
_''Mr. and Mrs. Mason! Do come in!''_

  
Beneath the dreadful veil of his cupboard, and the backdrop unctuous tones of his blood relatives, Harry finds himself amerced within wistful memories of his time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


	2. Unfortunate Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jamming out to Halestorm, Skillet and Linkin Park while editing this chapter was very therapeutic.

Chapter 2

Unpleasant Company

  
The weather is particularly foul, thick, heady clumps of precipitation descending from the sky. It mirrors Harry James Sirius Potter's current headspace.

  
_DING_

  
_DING_

  
_''Boy, open the door!''_

  
Streams of frigid liquid droop onto the young Potter's tuft of unruly ebony locks unpleasantly, cascading down onto his forehead- pooling in rivulets overtop of the lightning bolt-shaped scar adorning the spot just beneath the beginning of his hairline.

  
''Oh, you're still here, are you?'' 'Aunt' Marge, Vernon's sister, regards him in utter disgusted-loathing. The cumbersome umbrella within her meaty grasp is shoved unceremoniously into Harry's emaciated form, drenching his haggard secondhand clothing. The plump woman stampedes passed him, nearly knocking his over-slight form over; Her hefty bulldog, Ripper, wobbling along at her heels.

  
''Marge! How lovely to see...'' Uncle Vernon's simpering voice can be heard from the lounge as the Potter begins the inefficient task of attempting to enfold the umbrella closed, shutting the door behind him lightly.

  
''...He'd have been straight to an orphanage if he'd been dumped on my doorstep,'' Harry hears as he pads through into the kitchen after managing to complete his arduous task. He can feel the distasteful gazes following him as he trails on silent toes back to his previous task in the kitchen; Tending to the sustenance for the Dursleys and unpleasant company.

  
''Is that my Dudders?'' Marge positively coos, honing in on where Dudley is seated in his task at seemingly boring into the television with an unblinking gaze. ''Is that my little neffy-pooh?''

  
''Give us a kiss! Come on! Up, up!''

  
''Take Marge's suitcase upstairs!'' Vernon hollers from the lounge.

  
Harry wordlessly obeys- which can be a bit of a dangerous endeavor.

  
The rest of the evening continues in much of the same sort: Dudley- whom is completely enraptured by colorful programs flittering across the television- being positively cooed over by both his parents and Aunt. Harry dishing out constant streams of meals and alcohol- and, overall, serving as impromptu waiter. The raven remains painfully detached-silent throughout the experience, even during the particularly unsavory drunken words uttered by Marge in particular.

  
''Where did you send the boy, Vernon?'' Aunt Marge questions at one point during the meal; Tipping the contents of her glass, a richly-pigmented bought of brandy, over the edge of the table for her salivating dog.

  
''St. Brutus'.'' _Lie_. Uncle Vernon answers primly. ''It's a fine institution for hopeless cases.''

  
''Do they use a cane at St. Brutus', boy?'' The rotund woman addresses Harry, words slurring in the slightest.

  
''Oh, yes.'' Vernon answers when Harry does not, currently immersing himself amongst the steady array of piling dishes.

  
''Excellent!'' She exclaims in pleased agreement. ''I won't have this namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not beating people who deserve it...''

  
''You mustn't blame yourself about how this one turned out,'' Vernon's sibling continues. ''It's all to do with blood. Bad blood will out.'' Harry's fists clench a bit overzealously over the grimy plate in his sudsy grasp. ''What is it the boy's father did, Petunia?''

  
''Nothing. He didn't work.'' Lies. Aunt Petunia answers primly. ''He was unemployed.''

  
''And a drunk too, no doubt?'' Marge hiccups an influenced cackle.

  
Harry's back is turned on the subject topic, but it doesn't keep him from hearing the distinct, abrupt clatter of glass shattering. Along with the exclamations of surprise immediately following- Aunt Petunia in shrill particular.

  
''Oh, don't worry. Don't fuss, Petunia.'' Marge assures, waving the stuttering woman off. ''I have a very firm grip! You, boy, clean it up.'' The woman snaps her fingers, ungraceful movement full of bidding. Abidingly, Harry discards the cutlery in his grasp to gather a rogue cloth to sop up the spilled liquid and fragments of glass. Satisfied with his obedience, Marge continues with her spiel.

  
''Actually, it's nothing to do with the father. It's all to do with the mother.'' _A green-hot light and a reverberating scream_. ''You see it all the time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, then there's something wrong with the pup.''

  
An awaiting plate settled on the drying rack shatters as Harry discards the bits of glass in his grasp. Without a blink, even through the resulting gasps and alarm, the ebony-maned pre-teen pads over to sort out the broken bits to plop into the bin.

  
''I think it's time you went to bed, boy.'' Uncle Vernon addresses. There's an undercurrent to his tone that prods at Harry's consciousness dimly. The raven is moving to obey, to settle into the nook of his cupboard hole. The unsteady, unpleasant conversation continues into the late eve of the night.

  
In the midst of the cover of darkness, sharp fists and cutting words bite into mistreated flesh, rendering its form incapable of movement for the foreseeable days following.

\--...--

  
Harry James Sirius Potter of the Cupboard Under the Stairs, Number 4 Privet Drive may just as well be dying.

  
There's no denying it. The noirette Knows.

  
It wouldn't be the first, nor the last, time Harry had awoken from a bodily-enforced coma, entire form vividly protesting. His Uncle was never one to physically restrain himself- especially when it came to his despised nephew- after all.

  
Uncle Vernon had been particularly incensed at the raven-locked boy's ''behavior'' around Aunt Marge- his lack of affirmation towards his ''superiors'', to be precise. Which, of course, meant that he had to pay for his untoward actions. Which is what leads Harry to his current situation: Locked within the stifling confines of his cupboard for the foreseeable future.

  
There's a steady, discomfortingly-sticky pool beneath him, caked into the thin cloth of his cot-bed, which must be from bleeding out whilst he was passed out; Along with an uncomfortable cling to regions of his skin from where the crimson had apparently plastered on to encrust. There's a steady throb within his midsection- fractured ribs, at his estimate. Along with a _thu-thumping_ notion from his wrist and collar bones whenever he shifts even minimally. Both his cranium and knee are also pounding in displeasure at their leisure- a concussion and sprained, he muses. Overall, through Harry's wheezing gasps for breath, it's towards the top ten-fifteen of the worst beatings he's received yet.

  
_Just over a month until Hogwarts,_ Harry attempts to reassure himself. _Just over a month until Hogwarts._

  
\--...--

  
There's a bit of a repetition that commences.

  
The only times Harry sees the outside surroundings of his cupboard is the rare occasion he's let out to relieve himself. Otherwise, and much more frequent, it's to add to the ever-growing list of injuries littering Harry's person.

  
_Just over a month until Hogwarts_ , remains his mantra during the duration of his isolation and physicality's.

  
**_''Bloody well of me to take you in, Boy!''_ **

  
_Just over a month until Hogwarts._

\--...--

  
He's allowed out at one point when Aunt Petunia- despite being a housewife her entire marriage- can't manage to work the washer and dryer. Or when she doesn't want to soil her precious, prim, manicured digits washing the steadily-piling loads of dishes consuming the sink half-hazardously. Or when a gradual of dust soils the innards of her beloved home. Or he can prepare a luxurious dinner, with no rhyme or reason, of vast quantity when such is demanded via Dudley. Or when Dudley desires a buffet of sweets and treats. (But never anything outside the reaches of the house, no. That's too freeing for Boy.)

  
_Just over a month until Hogwarts..._

  
It's a bit of a liberating ounce of range outside of the enclosed walls of his cupboard. Not as substantial, exhilarating, as roaming Hogwarts castle, but something nonetheless.  
Until it all comes shattering at the young Potter's feet.

  
The beating and lashing- both physical and mental- had become a daily occurrence, even through his limited range of 'freedom'. Throughout the years beneath the rein of the Dursleys' stifling space, Harry had become partially immune to physical ailments from his relatives- and beyond.

  
Unfortunately, however, he's- despite his mental capacity to forget such fact- still a child and prone to mistakes.

  
Aforementioned mishap occurs whilst he's in the midst of tending to the grimy dishes. He'd been drying one of Aunt Petunia's numerous fine China plates, when it managed to slip through his grasp, shattering drastically across the glimmering floor he'd hand-polished the day prior.

  
It took mere, though infinite, moment before a shrill call made him flinch- luckily alone during the slip-up.

  
_''BOY!''_ Aunt Petunia shrieks.

  
That afternoon, Harry is stuffed into the folds of his cupboard, the grating slapped shut to allow not even a miniscule crack of light inside. His breathing laboriously-choppy in a few wheezing struggles for air. His body alight with agony...

  
He's consumed by darkness. _Hopefully for the final, bidding time._

  
_''You're never going back to that school. You're never going to see those **freaks** again! **NEVER**!''_

  
_Just over a month until Hogwarts...._


	3. Blond Fret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A chapter?! *Le gasp*
> 
> So sorry for the sluggish updates... I'm currently trying to work on the third story that follows this one- weird as that sounds considering this one only has three chapters posted. Otherwise, I've no real excuse. Apologies!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_**Chapter 3** _

  
Draco Lucius Severus Malfoy, prodigy of the infamous Narcissa Malfoy née Black and Lucius Malfoy; Heir to the grand Malfoy name and inheritance; Son of Death Eater-out-of-cowardly-driven-fear; Owner of luxuriously, natural bright-blond, perfect locks. Renowned git of Hogwarts...

  
_Draco Malfoy_ is worried.

  
It had been nearly three months since the finalization of his First Year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry- such tuition sanctioned practically since before his very birth. In that time, he and his family had escaped off on a few holiday get-aways- including, to the devious pre-teen's delight, to France. Now, though,- school but a little over a month away- locked within the confines of the luxurious, though dreadfully tedious-stifling walls of the Manor, Draco finds himself bored; Despite his mother and Dobby the House Elf attempting their very best to keep him distracted.

  
Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Millicent Bulstrode had each visited the Manor on a few occasions previous to and following the Malfoys' outings- having each known one another since infancy. He always enjoyed spending time with his companions- despite how frustrating each could be at quirks. It'd been a while since they'd been over to entertain Draco, though. He ~~does~~ doesn't quite dare to say that he... _misses_ them, but their company would be appreciated nonetheless.

  
Fortunately, even if his father doesn't allow them to visit,- what with Draco's upcoming return to Hogwarts; where he can ''visit with them then''- that doesn't mean they remain without contact. The six of them- though, Crabbe and Goyle practically can't read, let alone write- share letters consistently, which mollifies the blond to a degree. And his mother is always pleasant company- even though his father isn't, in particular.

  
His Uncle and godfather, Severus Snape, had also deigned to visit on several occasions- even if via summons from Lucius. Despite his outwardly gruff exterior, the potions master always manages a brief- though a subtle degree of fond- clasp on the shoulder or pat on the head for his pseudo son. 

  
(And if Severus nigh-always manages to smuggle in a gift of sorts to his favorite devious blond, well, that's between them. And Narcissa- the woman, scarily, seems to know everything; when it pertains to her beloved child especially.)

  
Unfortunately, however, there's one thing that has been bothering Draco.

  
Despite the odds- and, most likely, his father's wishes- Draco had managed to befriend _The_ Harry James Sirius Potter. Their first chance meeting had been in Madam Malkin's, in order to purchase robes for their First Year at Hogwarts. And, from there, they'd further associated after being placed into the same House.

  
The Malfoy Heir wasn't stupid- not in the least. It hadn't escaped his knowledge during the duration of his first exposure to Potter, that he was a surprisingly quiet chap; Allowing Draco to lead the conversation points, and merely adding in low-toned comments or appropriate noises when needed.

  
And even at Kings Cross' Train Station, it was clear that Harry hadn't a guide, or even direction on how to get to the Hogwarts Express- despite the Hogwarts gameskeeper, the half-giant Rubeus Hagrid, being his guide during his extent into the Wizarding World. Which is what had lead to Draco- well, his mother, admittedly- offering the dark-haired boy explanation on how to enter the barrier that leads through to the platform to board the train that would cart them to school. Even though Draco had not ~~the nerve~~ managed to find Potter during the nine hours' voyage on the freight.

  
Practically all the encounters, and observations, the blond had had involving Harry had proven one thing: That the ebony-haired boy did not speak much, nor require vast accompaniment about him. That touch was an adverse reaction for him. That knowledge was a powerful influence in his life- which Draco can agree with whole-heartedly. That he adores animals- as shown in his interactions with his canine, Padfoot, whom stays with Hagrid; along with the half-giant's own slobbery boarhound, Fang. That, despite his being sorted into Slytherin, there's a bit of each House within him.

  
There's a bit of Gryffindor,- not even due to his parents having been lions- in his stupidity in diving head-first into danger; practically as if he has not any care over his own bodily fate. Ravenclaw in his thirst for knowledge. Hufflepuff in that, despite his elusive tendencies, there's a definite overwhelming kindness about him. It all never seizes to surprise Draco.

  
There's also that definite touch of Slytherin to him, though. With his peculiar tendency to sneak out of the dorm and Common Rooms,- though, Draco still isn't quite certain how- for instance. Or how he, somehow, manages to smuggle his way through the obstacles of being the Boy Who Lived, and all involved. There had to be at _least_ a miniscule ounce of cunning within that shy demeanor- whether the unruly raven-maned boy is aware of it or not.

  
Draco is concerned over Potter, admittedly, though. He'd sent the other boy- beneath his father's knowledge; as that would surely be disastrous if their friendship were to be discovered- several letters throughout the duration of the Summer. Pertaining to the holidays he and his family had went on, asking how the Potter's own was going, updates on the sneaky little kitten- Volos- Harry had thoughtfully gifted him with for Christmas. Then, letters inquiring as to the raven's whereabouts and wellbeing when he never once answered. And, most recently, a gift for Potter's upcoming birthday on the twenty first of July.

  
Draco isn't certain as to the conditions surrounding Harry's living arrangements with his aunt, uncle and cousin, but he was beginning to wonder. His fellow serpent had never once discussed them, now that he thought about it, which served to unnerve the blond even more. Especially considering Potter's aversion to touch and confrontation- exempting, apparently, personal equations with the Dark Lord.

  
It severed to plague the blond vastly, until he made the decision to confront his mother with his concerns.

  
After all, she seemed to find Harry a ''charming young man'', at the least.

  
She wouldn't have offered assistance, nor gift for the winter holidays, if she didn't hold some form of content in the boy's presence, after all.

  
Narcissa Malfoy, ever prim and composed, seemed to share a bit of Draco's sentiments that it was odd for Harry to not respond, once informed of Draco's musings over his classmate. Unless, perhaps, those Muggle relatives of his had simply banned him from communicating via owl delivery. The fact still remains, though.

  
His mother had also deemed to personally owl a few letters to Harry. One, at the end of First Year lightly scolding him for foolishly endangering himself by confronting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, also known as the murderer of the boy's parents. Not long after, offering an invitation to visit with Draco at the Manor or even join them on holiday,- a short couple days while Lucius was out tending to Ministry and nefarious business- if he was given permission, of course. Also a few pertaining to asking how his Summer was going and, at Draco's admission, as to his well-being.

  
Unfortunately, to Draco's utter disgruntlement, his mother denied the suggestion that they simply find and check on Harry. It would be mighty suspicious, let alone inappropriate, for them to locate the residence, and then abruptly pop in unannounced. And, without proper reason. It, despite Draco's intuition as to the contrary, could just be that Harry is being punished for his daring actions regarding Professor Quirrell playing host to You-Know-Who. Or, possibly that he indeed wasn't permitted to exchange owls. Or...

  
Either way, though, Draco was worried for his friend.

  
(And wasn't _that_ shocking? It'd positively drop a Weasley in a dead-faint!)

  
However, as the blond sits drinking a hefty spot of tea and exchanging pleasant company with his mother, Volos the ever-growing orange kitten contentedly being petted from his perch in his lap, he plots.

  
After all, Draco himself, nor his mother, may not be able to physically pop in to check up on Harry, but that doesn't mean _no one_ could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I change the date of Harry's birthday? Why yes, yes I did.
> 
> The reason for such is that Harry's atypical Zodiac Sign is Leo- which has the Lion as a sign, along with that fact the qualities don't match as smoothly with my interpretation of Slytherin and Broken Harry. So, I made him a Cancer instead. Neville's is also altered to July 20th.
> 
> This isn't my favorite chapter, feels a bit more like a filler, but everything's there for a reason.


	4. Pop Comes a Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! second posting in a row :D
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_**Chapter 4** _

  
Harry Potter is uncertain how long he'd been stuck in the cramped space of his cupboard.  
Days. Weeks. Months. _Years_. Everything blends together, there's no concept of time, within the Darkness. Uncle Vernon's daily beatings had even petered out after two particularly vicious days of relentless torture.

  
One thing the raven-haired pre-teen is certain of, however, is that he's- yet again- facing the brink of death.

  
He'd long since lost _care_ interest in how many ailments, abrasions and breaks adorned his body. However, he's well aware of how his body feels like it's steadily roasting the longer he lays there atop his cot, how he can feel the perspiration and oozing muck clinging to his slight body. How it seems more and more difficult to breathe as the seconds, minutes, _hours_ drag by sluggishly.

  
_Just over a month until Hogwarts_ , he'd previously naively thought. Now, though, the thought seems laughable. Impossible. _Not going to bloody happen._

  
The only peace Harry found nowadays was the thought of blissful darkness. Heaven or Hell or _Anywhere_ would be better than here; Beneath the Dursleys' reign.

  
_The will is under my mattress, Hagrid,_ Harry attempts to telepathically transfer.

  
If somehow ~~impossible~~ the Potter manages to escape death, again, then he vows to enclose such farewells into his parents' vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. For now, and most likely forevermore, though, such is but a fleeting thought.

  
For now, Harry forces his eyes to remain open in the infinite, pitch darkness. It wouldn't do to become ensnared within his nightmares and involuntarily give his relatives further advantage over him, after all.

\--...--

  
There's something on top of him.

  
Apparently, just like with everything, Harry had sometime managed to lose the battle to stay conscious. Which is what leads him to his current, startled predicament:

  
A weight, though not particularly hefty,- though a bit cumbersome for his emaciated form; worsened over the last few months- residing atop of the area about Harry's knees in the limited space. A discomforting stare he can detect, even through the foreboding ebony, regarding him. Such, combined with Harry's reflex flinch at the touch, seems to cause a chain reaction.

  
It's a direct assault on the pre-teen's senses when a flicker of light abruptly _snaps_ into existence. It'd been so long since the Potter had been in contact with any source of illumination, that it's several moments before he can manage the light without painfully, disoriented, squinting. He finds himself dumbfounded once he manages, however.

  
He'd seen such creatures due to Hagrid's animal/creature book during December: House elves, they're called. Short, somewhat goblin-like, fellows whom are typically found within old pureblood homes- and Hogwarts' kitchens. They're typically used as servants of sorts for their Mistress and Master. Regarding the tattered pillowcase strewn over this rawboned figure's form, it seems he? she? is no different.

  
''Harry Potter!'' The house elf nigh-breathes. There's a steady, uncomfortable, reverence to their voice, in their body language; Along with a confounding level of concern as wide eyes trail over his reclined, damaged form. ''Such an honor it is!''

  
''Hullo.'' Harry manages, bemused- and a bit uncomfortable by the proximity and disadvantage he is in. And the tug on his ribs, his body, it pressures in order to speak. ''Um... Who are you, if I may ask?'' He, uncertainly, inquires.

  
''Dobby, sir. Dobby the house elf.'' The goblin-like creature bows ever-so-slightly, in the limited allotted space, at the waist. ''Dobby,'' the bug-eyed figure resting uncomfortably over-top of the young Potter's knees continues, ''has come for Harry Potter.''

  
''Me?'' The raven nearly sputters, astounded. For _him_? It's one thing when a then-stranger Rubeus Hagrid broke into the Dursleys' home the previous year after him, but another entirely when a _house elf_ \- an unknown one, at that- abruptly _pops_ into existence inside Harry's cupboard, apparently requesting his presence.

  
''Yes, Harry Potter, sir.'' Floppy, over-sized ears droop to and fro as he nods in agreement. ''Dobby has been sent by his masters to check on Harry Potter.''

  
''Your masters?''

  
''Yes, sir,'' Dobby agrees readily; Perhaps a bit too cheerily for the current situation.

  
''Wh-who are your masters, Dobby?'' Harry inquires. All his uncharacteristic questioning is causing a tight knot to form within his already damaged form, festering to overwhelming, choking, degree.

  
''Dobby cannot say, sir. Not now.'' There's a definite apology within the house elf's tone. Though, it's overlaid by _something_ as well that Harry doesn't have the energy to discern. ''Dobby was sent for Harry Potter, to give him a warning...''

  
Unfortunately, before Harry has chance to follow the rest of the wide-eyed silhouette's explanation, he's sucked abruptly, disorientingly, into darkness.

\--...--

  
When Harry next awakes, he's immediately overcome by a tidal wave of confused-alarm.  
It's not even September first yet, so he knows he's not in the Hospital Wing- there's, also, no pungent lingering scent of antiseptic in the air. But he's definitely not in his cupboard either; Nor laid outside on the cool, damp bite of grass at the Dursleys. There's a cushiony sponginess beneath him, cradling his back in a relaxing embrace. As well, a plush weight laid overtop of his form reassuringly.

  
There's a mild glimmer of light blanketing the space off to his left when dreary emerald orbs blink-shudder open. It's beaming warmly through a window several feet off to the side of the room, sweeping over the edge of the lavish bed Harry is currently laid out across.

  
Bemused, the comforter resting over-top of him is cast aside as he settles into an upright position, twitching slightly at a twinge from his abdomen. However, it's not the dull agony it had been for weeks, merely an uncomfortable tug-like sensation. A sweep, after locating his spectacles laid off to the side on a nearby nightstand, is cast over his form. To Harry's overwhelming surprise, there's not the lingering assortment of bruises, cuts, lacerations, nicks, etcetera that had been plaguing his emaciated frame. There's still several there,- some faded with time, others on the brink, others attempting- yes, but a descent majority seems to have been tended to: His ribs seem to have been soothed somehow, along with other broken extremities. His head, though still pounding restlessly against his temple, is even a bit managed.

  
It's not enough that he could be so careless as to lounge freely, publicly, without the drape of sleeves or lengthy trousers, but it's cleaner- the medium tint of his, unearthed, skin tone revealed- than it's been since his days at Hogwarts. Where Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley don't have physical grasp.

  
No, his skin ~~he~~ would never be free. _Never._

  
_SCRAAAPPEEEEE._

  
The young Potter's gaze snaps in the direction of the door off to the right-hand end of the room. There's a poignant scratching sound calling bodingly from the other end of the entrance, along with... whimpering?

  
The cool touch of the floor below only barely registers as Harry finds himself at the door, swinging it open without a moment's thought. Immediately, he's assaulted by drags of heady saliva from a textured, pink tongue.

  
''Padfoot!'' Harry breathes in delighted astounding. Through the monsoon of licks and nudges, two spindly arms manage to wrap tightly, shakily, about the great dog's fuzzy neck.

  
Padfoot is a canine that he'd made quick companions with during his Primary School days before being introduced to the Wizarding World and Hogwarts. He's a bear-sized hound standing taller than Harry,- especially stooped as he currently is- with brightly-gleaming, intelligent smoky gray orbs.

  
''How'd you find me, boy.'' The pre-teen murmurs rhetorically. There's a definite, traitorous prickling sensation looming beyond his eye sockets, that's immediately banished ~~_**''WEAK!''**_~~ relentlessly.

  
''Mr. Harry Potter!''

  
The ebony-haired adolescent stiffens at the unexpected, squeaky voice that sounds in alarm. His arms stay firmly locked around Padfoot's reassuring, furry form, though his neck reluctantly turns so as to apprehend who had spoken.

  
A bug-eyed, long-eared house elf is standing a few feet out in the hallway, Padfoot and Harry- though mostly the former- blocking the frame of the entrance. _Dobby_ , his mind recalls dimly. He'd _popped_ into existence in his cupboard.

  
''Harry Potter should not be out of bed, he shouldn't! Harry Potter is injured!'' Dobby squeals in alarm, frantic orbs gazing upon the monstrous dog the pre-teen is embracing with horrified-panicked-curiosity.

  
''I'm fine, Dobby, really.'' Harry reassures. Reluctantly, he shifts so that he's standing upright, though his dominant hand remains buried in the soft tresses of Padfoot's dusty mane. He frowns at the matted-texture. _A bath will be in order,_ he muses; Despite his own admittedly hypocritical state. He hadn't showered... well, since he managed impromptu bathing via the water hose a month previous and proceeded to pay for his actions dearly.

  
''Harry Potter is _unwell_!'' Dobby practically wails, seemingly more and more upset with the youngster's being out of bed as the moments flow by. Harry regards the open hallway wearily, backpedaling further into the unknown room so as to beckon the house elf inside. It takes the distracted, anxious fellow a moment, along with a low grumble from Padfoot, before he enters distractedly. Even then, it doesn't seem to mute his proceeding tangent any further as the door creak-swings shut.

  
''Harry Potter needs rest! He nearly died, he did! Had not Dobby's masters not sent him, Harry Potter would be dead! And the Wizarding World....'' Harry allows the house elf to release his frustrations, marginally paying mind to the goblin-like figure's words, partly sifting it to the back of his mind for later musing; Also keeping a steady, comforting palm resting atop a hackled Padfoot- not at the house elf himself, but at his words.

  
''I'm fine, Dobby.'' Harry, once Dobby winds down from his panic a bit, reiterates. And, really, it's only a bit of a stretched truth. He hasn't felt this physically decent since before Summer- perhaps ever.

  
'' _Harry Potter must rest!_ ''

  
''If I promise to rest some, Padfoot stays- if he wants. Deal?'' The raven negotiates. A squinty-eyed look scrutinizes him for several unnerving moments, before Dobby nods agreeably.

  
Which is how the following four weeks progress for Harry: Staying within the confines of the room,- a suite in the Leaky Cauldron, he learns- Padfoot stubbornly at his side eighty percent of the day; The other twenty percent filled in by Dobby, whom navigates- apparates, a means of self-automated travel- to be precise- between his family's home, whom he stubbornly refused to speak much of, and Harry's room for the remainder of the Summer.

  
During his now boundless free time, the young spectacled pre-teen opts to immerse himself in the homework he hadn't been able to tend to over the last few months at the Dursleys'. Unfortunately, he finishes it- admittedly channeling a bit of his inner Hermione Granger, a wicked-brilliant Ravenclaw girl in his Year, in being a bit over-accomplished with his essays and assignments- all too soon. Which leads to Harry growing restless, despite Padfoot attempting to either cuddle him into submissive lounging all day, or entertaining him to the best of his abilities. Even the paper and bits of parchment the ebony-haired boy had thoughtfully, last-minute shoved inside his threadbare school bag hadn't managed to last. He's already had Hagrid's creature/animal book memorized as well.

  
Which, inevitably, is what leads to Dobby gathering Harry's trunk from the abandoned classroom at Hogwarts that he'd taken to stashing it in.

  
But, of which, is also what leads to them having a bit of a row.

  
''Dobby has to protect Harry Potter! To warn him.'' The house elf insists one day. ''Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year! There is a plot, a plot to make most terrible things happen.''

  
_There has already been a plot before_ , Harry doesn't say. It had merely made the night terrors, pertaining to former Professor's with a tyrannous Dark Lord possessing him, worsen.

  
_There's most likely always going to be a plot_ , Harry muses to himself. Long, empty nights in his cupboard could be particularly stifling, leaving his mind to wonder. It wasn't always... pleasant for him to be left alone within his own head, either.

  
''What terrible things?'' Harry tries instead. It was marginally easier for him, having been instilled since infancy to _never_ question his superiors, to ask Dobby questions- or speak with him in general. He wasn't like adults or even Harry's fellow classmates, he was more... not quite naïve, but similar. ''Who’s plotting them?''

  
''I...cannot...'' Dobby grits between clenched teeth. His body twitches, attempting to resist the overwhelming urge to clobber himself with the nearest object. After the second incident where the house elf had ''punished himself'' for doing something he wasn't supposed to, Harry had made him _swear_ not to harm himself in any way or form whilst around him.

  
''I understand,'' Harry nods, ''you can't say.''

  
''Thank you, sir.'' Dobby releases a relieved sigh.

  
''-But I have to go back,'' the Potter finishes. ''Hogwarts... I belong in your world, at Hogwarts. It’s the only place...'' _It's the only place that's ever been a_ home _to him_.

  
''A place where Harry Potter's friends are, who don't even write Harry Potter.'' Dobby finishes, a hint of smugness to his wide, gleaming wide-eyes.

  
''...How do you know no one has wrote me, Dobby.'' Harry states, not asks, levelly; Coolly. Stoically. Immediately, sprawling ears droop with the house elf's sudden wariness of the topic, emaciated form withdrawing into himself.

  
''Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby.'' The goblin-like figure pleads. Bony digits twitch in the direction of a fold in Dobby's pillow case ensemble. ''Dobby hoped,'' he continues, ''if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him, Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir.''

  
''Dobby, I'm not mad.'' Harry vows, evenly, from his spot on the bed in his suite- so as to not, even involuntarily, tower over the other's short stature. ''May I have my letters, though, please, Dobby?''

  
''Harry Potter must promise he will not return to Hogwarts, sir.'' Dobby answers, eyeing the younger warily.

  
''I can't, Dobby.''

  
''Then I cannot, sir.''

  
''Please, Dobby,'' a puff of exhausted air ghosts through the noirette's nostrils. ''You- you saw how the Dursley's are.'' Guilt immediately wells within Harry at the low-blow appeal. ''If I return... Well, it's more dangerous if I return to them, Dobby. I won't survive.''

  
Dobby shakes his head a bit overzealously, over-sized ears flopping to and fro with the movement. ''Harry Potter be safer with his family. Hogwarts is not safe for Mr. Harry Potter, sir,'' the house elf insists.

  
''My letters, please, Dobby,'' Harry attempts. Dobby's stubborn exterior doesn't lessen. However, the palm hovering over the bundle in his impromptu clothing is no match for the stern, though gentle, jaws that retrieve it. Harry excepts the bunch with a warm stroke over Padfoot's furry head.

  
''Thank you, Padfoot.'' He greets graciously. His attention holds a double-sided apology, ''I'm sorry, Dobby.''

  
The house elf sputters an incomprehensible bit, before abruptly _popping_ out of existence. Leaving Harry alone, this time with Padfoot faithfully at his side, once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely adore Dobby.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this was enjoyable!
> 
> Also, updates will most likely be sporadic, please bear with me.
> 
> (Constructive criticism only please- I'm fragile!)


End file.
